ALL RESPONSES |
| --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
Take all the lines on earth,
tie them together on a nail.
Play mathematical games
with Pythagorean poets.
Now, put this in your blender:
If Leonardo found a camera obscura
on sale at Best Buy, and took a picture
of Jesus at Nye's Polonaise,
would the last snowflake fall?
Well, he did. It melted on Hennepin,
turned into a tear, and flooded the Internet.
That's all I had to say. Going for a walk. |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
Happiness requires only this:
A warm wind that carries
the scent of wet leaves,
sun sinking through
skin, & your love
buried there.
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
I.
You are dawn, azul
The alabaster moon
bright and astounding,
radiant, cool. Circling,
I find you, until you slip
from view.
II.
You are a rock in my pocket
I’ve rubbed smooth with
thought and time
see how you fit
in the palm of my hand,
how your body warms to mine.
III.
I watch you walk down the sidewalk
your body moves with a grace
so fluid you seep into my skin,
implant the rhythm of your stride
in every step I take.
IV.
Your are twilight and indigo
plaintive and dusk, you are delve
and decadent, torn curve,
smooth want.
V.
You are a church I could worship at,
the song in my veins, the wind in my hair
the rumble of a train, the first spring
shower, every number I covet.
VI.
I dream you into cities I am.
Quiet cobblestone streets
with narrow sidewalks
turn the corner and there
you are, leaning against
the stone wall. Your body
in shadow, your hand now in
mine, as you give me the world
with each and every kiss.
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
Your face promises something more.
Your hands sing jazz lyrics.
Your point vanishes into bronze.
You are headless wings.
You are extra-dimensional.
You are the renaissance horizon.
I paint you with secret geometry.
I blend your light with skilled sfumato.
I love the way you fly into my room.
We first met in the baths of Rome.
We ran from fires of bellicose heavens.
We trace our footprints in sand. |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
I think of a mountain of soft sand
each grain slipping through
the narrow end, measuring
my heart’s rate of change--
the calculus of love
and when I think
of you, my body
wants to fall
endlessly
land in an ever-
expanding heap. Baby
run the tip of your finger
along my edges, listen to my
body hum. Listen, to my body
& how you, my love, make it sing.
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
I found you floating on a bed of algae,
singing Cinnamon Girl.
You converted sunlight into words
and amplified the echoes of seashells.
Our music fed the hungry, gathered
around us in bamboo canoes.
Soon, the food ran out, the moon
appeared in your hair, and you slept.
I stepped out of my sin, so that you could wear it. |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
Pythagoras believed
all things are numbers
how well we’ve followed
him: a year or two for rape,
five to finite life for murder
absolute zero for torturing
my heart
geometry, like suffering,
is priceless |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
F O R C E
we apply to people and things
outside of ourselves in an effort
to manipulate outcomes
(power)
E N E R G Y
we hold in reserve
for modifying our own actions
and outcomes
(potential)
T H E C O N S U M A B L E S
upon which power and potential
feed (fuel)
A L L
have their limits.
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
in the rear kitchen window
spider webs become a spread
sheet for lonely evenings
while outside rain falls
in numbers too beautiful
to count
my three clocks chime
the same hour
several minutes apart
reminding me once again
my lover has forgotten
the words and i am left
to hum only the melody |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
Most of us are statistical: two
children, one spouse, a long drink
of cold water on a heated day
in the history of behavior most of us
are not mentioned save for numbers:
one birth, second grade, July 4th picnics
followed by that first girl with breasts,
the alluring touch of her finger
on the back of your neck
But everything we touch leaves prints
and all things have reasons that count
like the single small compact of light
that came through our bedroom
door last night to remind me
you are a person and i am a person
who don’t always see the same things |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
Winter left us too dirty, he said.
I count calendar days in my kitchen
hoping for lemonade on a patio,
a warm rain to wash us both clean,
like a baby’s first bath.
I count back the yesterdays,
like Grandmother alone in her bed,
remembering sunbeams over a lake,
movie nights, and ice cream,
but I am far from fading into death.
He counts cards; I lay a jack.
Chardonnay glimmers in the glass,
why do I thirst for red?
This moment will be one of these,
unfortunately. A mere memory.
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
Do you ever have nights where every sound is an echo,
and someone writes words on the inside of your skull?
Yes, I do. Nights that were never mine, stolen by angels,
who do pirouettes on my breasts until they hear last call.
On the first spring rain, do you run outside in pajamas,
waving a mason jar around in the air to can the smell?
I do. When the river is low, and tomatoes are thirsty,
I write a rain martini with olives, syllables and gin.
Is our consciousness a river between the boulders
of the world, therefore a contradiction of ourselves?
I think we begin in water. We shift between real
and not, as dictated by the mysteries of imagination.
Shall we, then, walk together by the shore at night,
listening for the echoes that travel from words to worlds? |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
There is never a last snowfall
just look outside and see it,
how dare it
especially after removing the scraper
from the trunk to avoid hearing the rumble
at every turn or fast stop. Do you hear
the rumble in my soul? A sentiment
that there is never a last of anything. |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
10
& up a tree, barefoot, hair in tangles, body pressed against rough bark, learned to be still, so still a bird would land close enough for me to see its heart beat twice as fast as mine.
17
on my bike, knew every boundary of my hometown and how to cross them. Planned my escape, took nothing but a backpack of clothes, a box of books, and two struggling house plants with me.
34
5 minutes after giving birth they brought lunch. A 4 ounce hamburger and a half cup of red jello. My baby, 6 pounds 7 ounces, 21 inches long— had numbers before a name. Fell in love with his first breath, wanted to count each one.
44
I’ve become the branch outside my window, the buds waiting there, become the wind and the rain, the shadow of the moon. Grown into this body that I’m no longer sure can contain me.
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
Monochromatic Dream
woke with a twisted ball
of hair
on one side of my head
i had a busy night last night
but woke empty
like my hair
my dreams
had twists and turns
that left me cold
had a splinter in my foot
the size of a
staple prong
barefoot
i climbed a
snow covered hill
my foot never bled
nor turned cold
i was naked
when i reached the top
there was sky
the same color as the hill
between clouds
were hints of the most beautiful
spectrum blue
we lived in a shabby
one room flat
no matter how hard i scrubbed
i couldn’t make it beautiful
and...
your voice said you loved me
but the ice blue of your eye
said not
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
Of Gumption and Wigits
As in meters, their little, fast-racing hearts
going nowhere, round and round, planted
there in a glass roundhouse to count kilos
and kilowatts, an obsessive fixation on light,
how much used, the dates, the hours, moment
by movement. What else can a meter do,
locked in as it is behind transparent walls?
Anyone with an eye can see through it.
And earth is needyness, is inherent counting.
Everything craves light, even the material
darkness, always on the edge of its own death,
a stab of morning light. A house has nothing
which won’t admit light. So the meter runs on,
chasing the expenditure of light, measuring it,
like its precursors, the watermill, the hour glass,
the sun at its ancient levels of height and depth.
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
I wanted white roses. I wanted rain to
come in the window. The sky was gray
and the moon had disappeared,
the cherries were sweet and chilled.
I wanted the kisses of your mouth
and waited, the edge of recognition
flaming my skin at your touch.
The roses wept, the rain dripped
down the pane and the
phone never rang,
the bowl filled with cherry pits
and my fingers were crimson.
The moon blew away the clouds
and silvered my solitude,
my pearly body opaque and bold.
I remember the tears
you spilled into the cup of my breasts
to drink when I am thirsty,
the scent of damp earth,
the way the white curtains rose and fell
with the fragrance of spring.
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
Sometimes I sit and wait and
nothing happens. Sometimes it rains.
Sometimes the candles blur in
tears and sometimes my
heart is an empty drum, resounding
only because it is struck.
When I hold open my hands to the
sky and lift my face to the wind,
sometimes it is magic. Sometimes
only cold. I want to hold this place
open where you walk upon the
cool waters of my stillness
but sometimes I can’t prevent the
blazing sun from hammering down
and the flowers from thirsting
into complaint. I hold this place
open where you touch my longing
and my quick. Sometimes it is peace.
Sometimes it is conflict.
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
never ending
geese were flying north
and green grass
was starting to appear
i think i saw a robin
the other day
first sign of spring
today we have
a fresh five inches
of snow
and it’s still falling
grandpa always said
“if it snows in march
let the one who put it there
take it away”
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
Let’s steal a silver branch, a blossom
shaped like the moon
a kiss as deep as the ocean, your body
as brilliant and radiant
as the night sky he loves, and an ocean
whose waves
rolls in, one after another
building and spilling like my love
for you. And
an orange, let’s steal an orange
so I can break its skin
with my fingernail, peel
it slowly, its fragrance for you
to breathe in, as the sky
shifts to your favorite blue
I place a slice on your tongue
feed each hunger
with my hands, fill your body
with morning light,
an orange, and me.
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
Spinning black mark
every circle
a breath of experience
Paid
in understanding
in expectation
Powering
the now
with past
with future |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
A day of raking lawns in sun
opened windows sealed all winter.
Mental melting made us aware of what was.
Cold and tired, we had turned inward
and focused on unlit corners of root cellars,
mason jars of dill pickles, beets and sauerkraut,
produce preserved in brine for better times.
Some things taste better when salted down and fermented.
Others crave bright light, more than lamps provide.
Solar power frees birds from cage, hair from hat.
We could see our neighbor again, climbing trees,
flying from nest to branch, gathering walnuts in pockets.
Imagination returned for a day or two - we could almost speak again.
It was good, until Monday and its regulation.
The slow uphill walk through gray with a pack full of stone.
Words that never made it out in time, buzzing the jaws, stinging the tongue.
But they tell us the sun is always shining at the top of the mountain,
so let’s keep walking.
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
round the back of the house, we’d walk,
dad and I, to pee on mom’s flowerbed.
she’d come to the backdoor, flatten her nose
against the screen, then grumble and haw—
oh you boys, oh my flowers—pretending to be mad.
dad would say: don’t let her see us!
and we’d both turn slightly to the left
to pee on some other flower. |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
Sun, burn my skin
heat me up, Sun
until my bones are soft
and sweat collects in every hollow
Sun, kiss my cheeks into blossoms
and halo my head into gold
I want to melt like candle wax
I want to lose all boundaries
Sun, mark my skin in flame
until I leap into cool water
Make my body limpid like Sunday
afternoon in the hammock
drinking ice cold lemonade
Let me feel sand under my back
and waves lick the salt in my blood.
Sun, ignite me to salsa dances
white dresses like gardenias
across the polished floor
torch the beat of my lover’s steps
let there be lovers in brocade and charm
let there be glances sultry as sin
Be outrageous, Sun
like fruited wine
Taste me on the back
of your hand like a flame that shoots
through the dark
and falls to earth
reflected in a thousand
colored candles
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
There once was a cowboy named Bush,
whose mind started to turn to mush,
Unemployment swelled,
the people rebelled,
so Obama kicked him out on his tush. |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
People live in this house.
The house fits right in
with the rest of the houses.
Its windows face long
afternoons.
The house fits right in,
and no one guesses
the long afternoons
mean nothing.
And no one guesses
that the other houses
mean nothing
to this house.
Or the people who shudder
within—
their dreams like shadows,
wavering but persistent.
Or the houses that shutter
their windows, face
their own shadows.
Wavering but persistent,
we all live in a house.
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
There is
a dirty, scrawny orange
in my evergreen bush.
And it is picking
at the bluish berries
with what looks like
a yellowish black stem.
Can it be? Just a week ago
two feet of snow fell,
but now
just a wee
looking lost robin.
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
| An American sentence, or Haiku. Anyway, 17 syllables in English. |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
Just before 10:30 this a.m.
the meter stopped
power was shut off
and Tom drew his last breath.
And then
it snowed again.
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
Our flesh was frozen
Winter early Nineties
Small town microdot night walks
Crosstown to convenient store locations
Cigarette inheritance
Then backwards through bitter frigid winds
We would all return to Aaron's room
Where it was Warm
And thaw a bit
I could feel my hands spreading back to life
Like a frozen steak thawing in the sink water
Smoking now and gut rot feelings of warmth and evil love
Bragging in our late teens of finding holes in which to bury bones
Like dogs (another name for male whore in the old bible- "dog")
And where was the reverse of this? That that is named God? We were so
far from his touch then.
My mouth - smoke, metal
Burrowed in that room
It spoke with fluency in perfect unaware purity
Of tales dusty and amber now
Of territories and talismans fantastic forgotten
Of friends far, far away in dying light. |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
| Another American sentence. Go ahead, try it. |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
in a little wire
it passes by unseen
like wind through a mill |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
You're right, this is fun!
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
| much better than television although I adore |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
Your mouth, wrists, shoulder blade I find, & make them
my own. After, I watch morning break in your eyes.
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
Like an ancient Chinese coin
Round in a square box
Nature’s circle, human lines
Book waiting
Story with no ending
Only what is and the box it’s in
Tape player on record
Taking in what life there is
A prayer bead, a whistle
A rattle calling light
An email typed to God
Light cradle
Faithful only to itself
As it moves the dark around
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
Constant and irrational, I number and name the days
after my favorite parts of you. Today
is palm; yesterday the hollow of your collarbone
tomorrow, thigh,
because I miss you, I watch a bird fight
the sky and lose. Know gray
comes in shades of blue and that wherever you are
you’ll draw a circle on the map, and find me.
Our ratio can never be expressed
as a fraction
even when I divide you
into me.
And baby, like pi, we never end or repeat.
And baby, like pie, you are my favorite
after dinner, out of the front porch, treat.
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
| A gravel voiced man with short and snapping fingers; once, king of the road. |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
The knees of this tree bend with haggard reflection.
They age over time while the wind
whips winter storms across its torso.
I liked today until tomorrow’s plate glass expectations
shattered pieces of a mood I cannot recreate.
The end of yesterday forged a space in time
A continuum of all the things people expect out of me.
Sucking me dry; they vacuum out the emotion.
It’s clean and swift. Motor skills
tumbling; a numbing effect.
The tree falls over, lopsided to dust and
the snow on the other side shines bright;
puts all of its hope into the seedlings that fell last spring.
I shift the curves of my body, now slumped over the stoop
in a half-moon shape. I wait for that hope in renewal to come
whip itself across my tired body.
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
No one will be there
to witness, watch and enjoy
the world's last snow fall. |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
